


Three

by sunnyamazing



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Julia @ the Blackwood, Missing Scene, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23926459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyamazing/pseuds/sunnyamazing
Summary: On this particular night, three cups of tea will go stone cold between her fingers.Julia, the Blackwood Hotel and the moments she spent alone before she called for David.
Relationships: David Budd/Julia Montague
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59





	Three

**Author's Note:**

> I did not mean to write this at all, but *someone* sent me a picture of Julia's broken face at the Blackwood and these words wrote themselves; well into when I should've been asleep. Hello, 2:30am.  
> Thanks to Ally for adding commas and making my words less crazy, love you, WT.  
> Comments are always appreciated.

Three.

On this particular night, three cups of tea will go stone cold between her fingers. 

She’s lost count of how many times she’s raised the cup to her lips and all she’s been able to smell is blood. Then when she thought she had been brave enough to actually sip the liquid, all she’s able to taste is metal. 

She had never thought of blood smelling so pungent before, but then again, she’s never seen that much blood. Until today, she had never been covered in that much blood, from head to toe, and certainly not someone else’s blood. Terry wasn’t just someone else though. He was her driver. He had been for three years. Employed to shuttle her around from place to place, to decide on safe routes and practices, to weave her in and out of traffic and trouble, and now he’s gone. 

Because of a bullet that was meant for her. 

She raises the cup to her lips once more. It gives her fingers something else to do ... they won’t seem to stop shaking. But if she concentrates on the cup, on trying to make sure she doesn’t spill it everywhere, then her fingers might just cooperate. It has worked so far. 

She tries to take another sip, and this time the liquid makes it into her mouth. The tea is still tepid, and she forces a mouthful down. She attempts another, but she has to hold back the bile that seems to be rising in the back of her throat with every swallow. 

Placing the cup down on the table in front of her, it rattles softly against the smooth surface. She almost wants to laugh at the irony. She feels like she is rattling, but nobody seems to see, or to notice. Maybe they just don’t care. 

They brought her here with more security than she has ever had before. Here to the Blackwood Hotel, her new home for the foreseeable future. She doesn’t remember arriving, but she knows Kim was by her side. She remembers a murmured apology about Terry as Kim ushered her into a new car; a car that had not been pierced with a spray of bullets, with no cracked windows, with no blood. But that doesn’t mean the smell or the memory had faded. 

What happened between the scene of the shooting at Thornton Circus and her arrival at the Blackwood seems like a blur, an out of body experience, as if it were happening to someone else and not to her. Christ, maybe it’s because she wishes it was. There had been so many people after it was all over. People who had wanted to talk to her, to take her statement, to see what she remembered, to see if she had any idea who would want to do this. 

She had managed to make words, a few of them at least. Enough for her to be left alone, at least for the moment. Clothes had been organised, and her possessions had been retrieved from the backseat. They’d been disinfected and left on the table behind where she was currently sitting. The usually overwhelming smell of disinfectant lingers, but it’s not enough. No matter how much she tries not to, she can still smell the aftermath of the day. It has taken over her senses and she’s not sure it’s a scent she will forget any time soon. 

Kim had held the hotel room door open for her and ushered her quietly inside. She had pointed her in the immediate direction of the bathroom, and then left her alone. Julia hadn’t been able to look at herself in the mirror, fearful of what she would see. Afraid she would never be able to forget the image. Instead, she stood at the basin, stared down at her hands, watched the way the shaking started with just a simple quivering of her palms and then her fingers joined in.

It had taken her three attempts to make her fingers work. To be able to peel her blood-stained suit from her body, dropping each article of clothing into a pile in the corner. There was a delicate plopping sound as each of the garments hit the tiled floor, never to be worn again. It almost sounded too loud in comparison to the stillness of the posh hotel suite.

The shower faucet had been a challenge. It took two attempts to make it work, her fingers grasping at the tap, but unable to make them move. The shaking from her fingers moved up her arms until her shoulders were trembling, and then, finally, the water appeared. 

The water was too cold for too long. It ran red for too long, as well. Only once the water was scalding her skin, did she feel that she could calm herself even if just for a moment. The red water ran down over her face, and she’d made the mistake of looking down. The white tiles tinged with blood, so much blood, and the metallic smell was overwhelming. She’d had to close her eyes, but, of course, that hadn’t helped. 

With her eyes closed, all she can see is Terry. He’s there one minute and gone the next. All she can hear is the sound of screaming, and it takes her a second to realise that the memory of screaming reverberating in her ears had been her own. Her throat hurts even now, and her voice feels hoarse when she tries to speak. She doesn’t know how to deal with this, it’s a strange feeling. Her voice is usually her greatest asset, and her biggest weapon to wield. She has cut many people down to size with her quick wit and tongue, but she doesn’t know if she will ever be able to do that again. 

She had forced her eyes open, made herself stare into the void. The white tiles and hotel bathroom blur around her as she pretended that she could not see the red all around her. She had showered once, sure that she had removed all traces of what she’d needed to. Literally and figuratively. She had stepped out into the bathroom and wrapped a towel tightly around her body. Her fingers continued to tremble as she raised her head to the mirror for the first time, the woman staring back at her unrecognisable. She didn’t know who she was. She had raised her fingers to her hair in an attempt to bring herself into the moment, to fix something she could control. She could comb her hair and dry it, just to have something to focus on. She had reached up to brush her hair from the side of her face, an old habit, and her fingers came away red.

Terry’s blood, it lingered. 

To the shower she had returned, the water scalding hot again, as she scrubbed at herself until her own skin had become raw. The whole bottle of complimentary shampoo filled her palms and then was scrubbed into her hair, her nails scratching at her scalp. Her senses were overwhelmed, and the tears began to flow, her legs going weak at the same time. She had no other option but to sink to her knees as the day caught up to her. Her back was pressed against the cold tiles of the shower, squatting until her legs gave away and she ended up sitting on the shower floor, feeling more alone than she ever had in her life.

She doesn’t know how long she remained there, water trickling down the side of her face, over her shoulders, down her back, between her fingers. She had stayed there, staring into the void, unable, unwilling to close her eyes. The water had finally begun to run clear again, and only then had she felt brave enough to leave the shower. 

She didn’t stare into the mirror this time. She didn’t even touch her hair. Clothes had been left for her, and she dried her waterlogged skin, slipping fine material over her reddened body, hiding away her pain under a layer of familiar clothing. 

By the time she had left the bathroom, Kim had been gone. A note had been left for her that she would return, sooner should Julia need her, and that there were officers stationed around the hotel for her protection. They’d ordered her food. An officer had knocked on the door softly and had placed it on the table. He hadn’t spoken, he’d just smiled and somehow, she had forced herself to smile back. 

She doesn’t really know how, a natural reaction perhaps, the polite thing to do. Someone smiles at you, so you smile back, even if smiling is the last thing you think you can possibly muster. The officer had paused for a moment, looking at her as if he had wanted to say something, and she almost wished he had. She would have prefered words to the way he looked at her with pity in his eyes. She hated pity, she always has. 

She had stared at the food, and for one brief moment she’d contemplated eating it. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her finger traced the edge of the plate absentmindedly. The tea had seemed like a better option, and so the first cup of tea had been made. 

She had taken it to the sofa, curled her legs beneath her and sat. 

The silence had been overwhelming. It had been too quiet. She had been able to hear herself breathing, and was alarmed at how unsteady it sounded. So, she’d tried the television. A bad idea. Her face had been staring back at her as soon as she turned on the news. It was the same image they always used of her, one she used to like. But looking at herself now, she recognised a slightly smug smirk on her face, as if she knew it all. She wanted to laugh at herself now, she really had no idea. 

Another picture filled the screen. Her ministerial car, the one she had been sitting in only hours ago. Bullet holes were visible on all sides, cracked windows and a zoomed in shot of a blood-stained backseat. Julia felt sick.

She shouldn’t be alive. Someone had wanted her dead. 

Shaking fingers had taken control. The television had gone off, the remote pushed away. And she had sat, staring into space once again. 

One cup of tea had gone cold. 

Kim had come back, provided her an update and allayed messages to her. Julia was sure the words had gone into her head and then out again. She didn’t retain any of it. Kim had regarded her as normal, treated her just the same as if they were in her office, or in her flat, as if they were anywhere other than in a carefully guarded hotel room because someone had tried to kill her. She doesn’t know how to feel about that, if she’s being honest. She doesn’t know how she wants anyone to treat her. 

But is this what they all expect of her? That she can be shot at and still remain normal? The questions come pouring in her mind in rapid fire succession. Can’t any of them see how she cannot keep her fingers still? How she cannot smell anything but blood? Do they really see her as this inhuman? That this could happen and she can be okay and act like there is nothing wrong? Or is this all in her head? Does she appear fine or is she imagining all of this?

She had managed to ask Kim to take her food away. She wasn’t planning on eating it and Kim had quickly agreed, though Julia didn’t miss the uncertain look that had passed between them. Then Kim had disappeared, and she was alone again.

She had made herself stand, made her legs move from beneath her, and had made another cup of tea to replace the chilled beverage from before. Returning to sit on the sofa once more, she noticed for the first time that her phone had been left on the table, as well. She reached for it slowly, scrolling through the notifications on the home screen. Missed calls and messages flooded her screen: her mother, the PM, Anne, Stephen, Rob, Mike, Roger and even Tahir’s name are all there. The words on the screen barely register, and she cannot make herself reply to any of them. 

Two cups of tea have gone cold. 

There is too much silence. She is too alone. She wants to scream, to cry, to feel something, anything and nothing all at once. She doesn’t want to be here, alone with her hands trembling around a lukewarm tea cup. 

Her phone keeps making noise and still she keeps ignoring it. She doesn’t want to speak to any of them. She doesn’t want to be questioned about what it was like to be in that car. She doesn’t want to tell people about what it sounds like when bullets hit metal. Or what it sounds like when a round shatters the head of someone you cared about. 

She just wants someone who knows. 

Then it hits her. There _is_ someone who knows. 

But asking for him ... calling for him ... that would be crossing a line. He’s not on duty at the moment, and she recalls Kim mentioning that David had been excused for the rest of the day. 

Her hands tremble as she reaches for her phone, and her finger hovers over his number. Does she really want to do this? Is this what she should be doing? She should just pull herself together, retrieve files from her disinfected ministerial case and get to work. But she finds that she cannot. 

Her finger presses his contact before she can second guess the gesture and she raises the phone tentatively to her ear. His voice is quick to answer and clear on the other end of the line. 

“P.S. Budd.” 

She wants to tell him she needs him, because he is the only person who might have an idea of how she is really feeling. She wants to say so many things. But somehow she manages to say everything and nothing of what she truly wants to say. 

“Can you come to the Blackwood?”

He agrees to see her. 

Before she can even realise what she’s done, what she has truly asked of him, he is standing in front of her, regarding her with a silent but almost comforting stare. Neither of them have said anything of substance since his arrival, just hushed greetings as a guard let him into Suite 610. 

But she feels safer with him around. She holds her teacup in front of her, her fingers no longer shaking so violently in his presence. She finally feels calm.

Somehow, she makes herself speak, and tries to hide the trembling in her voice as he still regards her quietly. 

“No complaints about the surroundings, but... it’s unsettling not to be allowed back into your own home.”

The words are simple, but she knows in that moment he understands.

Three cups of tea have gone cold.


End file.
